Wanted: A Leopold Blake Thriller Page 2

  For the fourth morning in a row Mary had fallen asleep fully dressed and, after two full weeks of working nights, the seasoned cop had reached her limit. New York’s finest had trained her to deal with violent criminals, perverts, and street gangs, but nothing had prepared her for fourteen days with no sleep. Resisting the urge to groan, Mary swung her feet out over the side of the bed and stumbled into the bathroom, pulling off her crumpled clothes and tossing them onto the floor. She turned on the shower and waited for the pipes to stop rattling before stepping into the cubicle, letting the hot water do its work.

  Thoroughly scrubbed, she wrapped a towel around herself and stepped out of the shower to inspect herself in the mirror. Wiping the condensation away with her palm, she forced her eyes open. The results were not good. Swearing under her breath, she rummaged through her bathroom cupboards and eventually located her makeup bag behind a stack of Xanax bottles. She fished out the bag of lotions and powders and dumped the whole thing on the edge of the sink.

  After a cursory layer of foundation had covered up the worst of the damage, Mary headed back to the bedroom. She threw on something warm and comfortable – a nice change from her usual duty uniform – and fished out the airline tickets and passport from her underwear drawer. In less than two hours her flight would be boarding, which didn’t leave much time for packing.

  Mary’s cell phone let out a muffled chirp from the corner of the room. Digging out the handset from underneath a pile of old case reports, she saw the caller ID flash up and sighed.

  “Mom, this isn’t a good time,” she said, pulling her suitcase out of her closet with one hand and opening it on the bed.

  “I know sweetheart, it’s just always so difficult to catch you at a good one. Are you in the middle of something?” Her mother’s voice was a little more strained than usual.

  “What’s wrong, mom? You never call me unless it’s bad news.”

  “That’s not true. I called you last month. You know, before you were called away on that case. What was that all about again?”

  “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. It’s good to hear from you.”

  “It’s nice to hear your voice too. But you know we need to have that talk.”

  “I can’t right now,” said Mary, throwing clothes into the empty case. “I’ve got a flight to catch.”

  “Oh, that sounds exciting. For work?”

  “No, vacation. I’ve got five days saved up that I need to use.”

  “Vacation? It’s about time they gave you some time off. Not that you can afford to go anywhere nice on your salary. You know, Annie’s son Marcus still has connections at his firm. Maybe –”

  Mary cut her off. “Forget it, mom. I don’t work homicide for the money.”

  “I should hope not.”

  “Besides, I deserve a vacation. I’ve got a little cash saved up, there’s no reason I shouldn’t use it.”

  “Going anywhere nice?”

  “Paris,” said Mary. “The one in France. I’ll be eating baguettes and croissants for a whole week, and I won’t have to worry about anyone trying to shoot at me. I’m looking forward to it.”

  “France, huh? Very romantic. And who are you going with? Not by yourself, I assume?”

  “I’m flying out alone. I’ll be meeting up with a… um, friend, when I arrive. An old friend.”

  “Mary, honey, not this guy you’re always talking about? You know he’s nothing but trouble.”

  “I’ll be fine, mom,” Mary rolled her eyes. “I’m a big girl. I can look after myself. Listen, I’m already running late and I need to find a cab.”

  “All right sweetie, I’ll let you get on with packing. But we still need to have that talk. It’s very important.”

  “I know, mom. I promise we’ll talk soon, okay?”

  “Sure, honey. Fly safe and I’ll call you in a couple of days.”

  Mary heard a soft click as her mother hung up the phone, leaving her alone to finish a hurried search for clean clothes and suitable footwear.

  After ten frenetic minutes, Mary emerged from her apartment building onto the New York streets and flagged down a cab. At seven thirty A.M. the sun was rising and Mary could already feel the hints of a scorching day ahead as she climbed into the taxi and buckled her seatbelt. The driver nodded as she gave him her destination and the cab made its way along Broadway, which was already busy enough with commuters to make progress painfully slow.

  Holding up the boarding pass she’d printed the night before, she forced herself to relax. Ignoring the mounting crescendo of city noise outside, she imagined herself sat in a small Parisian café enjoying the sunshine with a plate of French pastries and a chilled glass of white wine. She could almost taste the hot, flaky pain au chocolat. With a satisfied smile, Mary folded the boarding pass and slipped it into her pocket. A grumble from her stomach reminded her to find some breakfast once she had checked in and wondered whether Newark airport served mille-feuille. She quickly dismissed the thought and resigned herself to the possibility of a stale bagel instead.

  Chapter 4

  LEOPOLD BLAKE WAS handcuffed to a steel chair when Jean Dubois – the Louvre’s senior art director – burst into the room. Slamming the door behind him, the old man stomped across the office toward the consultant. The ceiling light swayed in protest, casting strange shadows across the floor.

  “Merde! What the hell do you think you are doing?” Dubois said.

  “Calm down,” said Leopold. “You hired me to perform a full security sweep of this place. I did my job, nothing more, Monsieur Dubois.” He felt his right arm go numb where the handcuffs were too tight.

  “The Musée du Louvre commissioned you to perform a full audit of this gallery’s anti-theft systems,” said Dubois. “We did not pay you to go around and steal paintings from our walls.”

  “The museum is owned by the French government, right?”

  “Oui, what of it?”

  “And why do you think the French government would hire an American to consult on their security arrangements?”

  “Well, I don’t know why they would. Maybe they –”

  “They contacted me,” Leopold interrupted, “because I’m the best at what I do. I’ve worked as a criminology expert and consultant for more than a dozen national and international agencies, which is where I believe your bosses found my contact details.”

  “I still don’t understand why –”

  “Why this is relevant? Because your boss was recommended my services directly by the FBI Director, that’s why. I agreed to take the job because it makes a nice change from the usual homicide cases and it means I can spend a week in Paris not getting shot at.”

  “Then why try to steal a painting? What are you trying to prove?”

  Leopold sighed. “I could have waited. I could have filed the report, as you requested. But I’m not a big fan of paperwork, and I wanted to get the message across quickly. And here we are.”

  “And where are we?”

  “We’re in your security team’s holding office and I’m telling you that the Louvre is missing one Da Vinci painting.”

  “The one you tried to steal?”

  “We’ve been through this,” he rubbed his eyes with his free hand. “The painting I pulled down is a fake. A masterful copy, no doubt, but a fake nonetheless. I opted for the more direct approach of getting your attention, rather than scheduling an appointment – by which time your art thief could have had a chance to escape. Are you keeping up?”

  Dubois scowled. “How do you know it’s a fake?”

  “You have eyes, don’t you? Go talk to the curator. She was a little more receptive to my assistance.”

  The old man swallowed. “So let’s say I agree with you. What do we do next?”

  “We do nothing, Monsieur. I, on the other hand, will find out who on your staff is behind the theft and work with you to recover the original. After that, you can have my thoughts on the rest of your security systems as originally promised.”


  “You think this was one of my staff?”

  “No doubt about it. There’s no other explanation for how the painting could have been switched without someone noticing. This must be an inside job.”

  “We only commissioned you to examine the systems. You really think you can help?”

  “Of course – it’s what I do. And it’s why people like the FBI Director feel comfortable in recommending me to other agencies. I don’t do this for the money, you know.”

  “It’s not like you need it, Mr. Blake,” Dubois straightened his tie. “I’ve read all about you in the papers. I must say, I was expecting someone, erm, how do you say?”

  “Different.”

  “Oui, oui,” the director eyed Leopold quizzically, “different is the word, for sure. So what can I do to help?”

  “You can start by getting me out of these cuffs. Once you’ve done that, call an all-employee meeting and get everyone whose job involves handling any of the artwork down to a meeting room as soon as you can. I have a feeling whoever is responsible for this will panic and slip up if we apply just the right pressure. We just need to know where to look.”

  “Bien sûr, no problem. I’ll be back with the keys in a moment.”

  Director Dubois stalked out of the tiny office and Leopold heard his footsteps echo down the hallway and out of earshot.

  Chapter 5

  THE THANATOS SWEPT noiselessly through the chilly Atlantic waters, holding a steady speed of twenty-eight knots. The 312 foot customized yacht had been retrofitted with state-of-the-art propulsion systems and anti-radar graphite panels that covered its outer hull, meaning at two hundred miles from shore the chances of being tracked and followed were almost zero. With over forty million dollars’ worth of high-tech surveillance and covert interception equipment, The Thanatos was easily the most networked private vessel on the planet.

  Senior Operative James Cullen sat in the middle of the bustling command center, surrounded by smart glass walls, a type of privacy material that uses electro-chromatic technology to switch between transparent and translucent states by applying current. Squinting at the reams of text flowing across his bank of computer monitors, the senior operative noticed something strange and paused the data feed, leaning in closer to get a better look. There, pulsing gently on the high-resolution screen, was a name. A name that Cullen had seen crop up at least six times in the last twenty-four hours.

  Rubbing his eyes, he checked the data logs for the last week and a summary of keyword activity flashed up on the screen. Sure enough, the name had been flagged up by the interceptor systems over three dozen times in the last seven days, which was almost unheard of.

  Why the hell wasn’t I informed? Cullen thought, reaching for the telephone. He paused as he lifted the receiver, his gut once again telling him something wasn’t quite right. The Director is hiding something.

  For nearly ten years James Cullen had worked for The Organization, quickly promoted into a senior position following his tenure at one of the permanent bases in South Africa. Recruited straight out of MIT, a six-figure starting salary had been all the incentive Cullen had needed to keep his questions regarding the finer details of his new employer to himself. The tradeoff had been a happy one. In return for unquestioning loyalty and a military approach to obeying orders, the young college graduate had been given wealth, opportunity, and a life spent traveling the globe. Still, The Director had never kept anything from him before.

  I need some outside perspective.

  Cullen adjusted the Smart Glass into transparency mode and blinked hard as the crowded command center sprang into view. A dozen operatives of varying seniority scurried about the open-plan room, while others remained seated at their desks punching data into their computers and speaking into headset microphones. At the far end of the office, Cullen could make out the bright blonde hair of Rose Carter, a junior officer with whom he had struck up a friendship. The two of them had hit it off immediately and, of all the souls on board, he knew he could always trust her for an honest opinion. Cullen picked up the phone once again and punched in Rose’s extension.

  “James, what can I do for you?” a bright, friendly voice answered. “I wasn’t sure I’d be hearing from you after the beating you took last night.”

  Cullen laughed. “We can’t all have your luck with the nine ball, can we?”

  “Okay, so maybe pool’s not your game,” she said. “What’s up? You must have been down here a while.”

  “You had breakfast yet?”

  “No. I was planning on hitting the canteen at eight thirty.”

  “It’s nearly nine now, Rose. Lost in your work again?”

  Rose chuckled. “You’ll have to remember that next time you’re writing your performance reviews. I’m guessing you want to grab a bite?”

  “I hear they’ve got leftover bagels,” said Cullen, feeling his stomach gurgle. “If we’re quick, we might get a couple before the chefs finish them off. Plus, I’ve got something I want to run by you.”

  “Sure, sounds good. Anything serious?”

  “No, I just need someone to bounce a couple ideas off, that’s all.”

  “Another one of your hunches?” asked Rose. “You know those only ever get you into trouble.”

  “Don’t I know it. Anyway, lock up your workstation and get over here. We’ve not got long before they close up the kitchens and I’m starving.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  Cullen watched the young operative tidy her desk and make her way over to his office. She walked with a confidence that matched her striking looks, and Cullen noticed at least a couple of stray glances from the men in the room as she strode past.

  “Ready, boss?” she poked her head through the door.

  “You bet. Let me lock up my computer.”

  A few swift keystrokes later, and Cullen was on his feet and leading the way toward the canteen. As the pair made their way through the brightly lit corridors, Cullen tried to calm the sudden uneasiness in his stomach and prayed his innate knack for sensing trouble wasn’t about to make him throw up. Rose opened the door to the canteen and waved Cullen through, who was still lost in his own thoughts.

  “You doing all right, boss?” she asked, grabbing a tray from the shelf and making her way to the serving station. “Something on your mind?”

  “Yes, you could say that,” Cullen replied, following suit. “You’re sworn to secrecy though, the usual drill.”

  “Of course,” Carter replied, helping herself to a glass of orange juice. “I’ve trusted you enough times in the past. My lips are sealed.”

  Cullen grabbed a bagel and a packet of cream cheese before making his way to an empty table. Rose followed, grabbing two cups of coffee from the nearby dispenser.

  “Black, no sugar,” she smiled, sliding the hot drink across the table to him.

  “Thanks. I don’t get how you can drink it with all that nasty powdered milk.”

  “Adds flavor,” she replied, taking a big sip. “So, what’s up, Doc?”

  Cullen took a gulp of his coffee and glanced around the canteen, glad the place was deserted. “I’ve been tracking the current initiatives and something’s not feeling quite right.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Usually, my involvement in any one project is minimal. I mean, sure, I’m aware of what’s going on in the broadest sense, but I only really need to know the headline points.”

  “Yeah, I get that. Too much going on to get bogged down in the detail. That’s why people like me are here, right?”

  “Yeah, exactly. But what gets me is that I make a point of being aware of any major development that could affect us. And, until this morning, I had no reason to think that I was missing out.”

  “And now you do?” asked Rose, draining the last of her coffee and taking a large bite out of her bagel.

  “That’s what my gut is telling me.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  Cullen sighed. “I d
idn’t want to get you involved in anything that might get us both into trouble.”

  “Relax,” she said, taking another chomp of her breakfast. “It’s just you and me in here. Speak away.”

  After a long pause, he made up his mind and nodded. “Okay, but this is just a hunch, remember. There might not be anything to it.”

  “Spit it out, already!”

  “Let me put it this way…” Cullen tapped his fingers on the table. “During the last US election, how often would you guess our systems would pick up a hit with the President’s name listed as a keyword?”

  “I’m not sure. Our systems aggregate world news across the whole of the web, and only spit out unique content that’s relevant to our ongoing initiatives. So, out of millions of internet results, our systems might only filter through a few dozen.”

  “Right. The answer to my question, by the way, is forty. In the week leading up to the last election, our systems registered only forty relevant hits – and that’s out of more than a billion news stories around the world.”

  “Okay, I get where you’re going with this. Our systems have picked up on something, or someone, that you’re not already aware of?”

  “Tell me,” he said, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Does the name Leopold Blake mean anything to you?”

  Chapter 6

  THE AIR CONDITIONING was broken and the meeting room had quickly warmed up with the mass of bodies assembled inside. Leopold stood at the far end of the room, watching the Louvre employees find a seat on the plastic chairs, while Dubois fiddled with a feeble-looking floor fan. After several attempts, Dubois managed to get the blades spinning, and aimed the airflow in the direction of the gathering crowd. As the mumblings and whispers began to fade, the old man leaned in close and caught Leopold’s attention.